


The Short Ones

by traumschwinge



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Family Bonding, Ficlet Collection, First Kiss, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28487130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traumschwinge/pseuds/traumschwinge
Summary: Collection of the shorter (>2k words) ficlets I sometimes write so I actually post them on AO3. Proper summary for each individual chapter. Pairings in brackets after the chapter titles.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Emhyr var Emreis, Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 3
Kudos: 48





	1. Title to Be Determined (Geralt/Emhyr)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emhyr tries to flee the clutches of a woman trying to get into his bed only to run into Geralt. Geralt solves the problem for good.

“...wouldn’t you agree?”

Emhyr had to force himself not to remove the woman’s hand from his arm. It would be a stupid thing to do. She was a widow, about his age, and the daughter of one of the most powerful senators. He couldn’t just rebuke her advances. It would be political suicide. So he played along, without giving her any cause to think he was interested in her as more than a friend and confidante. Not that he was even that, but he couldn’t risk angering her. Her father adored her and wanted the best for her. He always had. She’d married up twice before. He didn’t plan on becoming her third husband.

He was thankful for how much practice he had at not letting his expression give anything away when she leaned in closer and cooed directly into his ear, “Besides, wouldn’t you like to have a male heir?”

He looked across the room at Cirilla. She was having a good time, which had been his main personal reason to agree to hosting yet another ball. Young noble men of the highest ranks were tripping over themselves in their efforts to impress her. And she already played them all, like the best of all political players. There was little chance that any potential son would do even half as good as she was. And Emhyr didn’t just think that because she was his and Pavetta’s daughter and he was biased. He was, but she was also objectively that good. An incredibly fast learner, with quick wits and charme and an experience of the world few at court could match. He was proud. And she would be a great Empress one day.

Belatedly, he realized that he should have responded. Luckily, the woman clinging to him clearly had a glass or two too much to drink and didn’t press. “I am sure a male heir would put many minds at ease around the palace and the city,” he said carefully. It wasn’t a lie. At least half the Senate and the general nobility still thought a woman was far less capable than even the most idiotic man. Cirilla was a very hard adjustment for their world views.

“If you’d excuse me,” he said, patting her hand before extracting himself from her grip. “I will get us another drink.”

Not as smooth as he would have liked, but the excuse was as good as any. He needed fresh air, desperately. Better yet, he wanted to run and hide and then scream at enough of his spies to make sure nobody would ever flirt with him again or try to conspire against his daughter with him. But he couldn’t. Duty forbid him from doing so. Consideration for his and Cirilla’s future forbid him from doing so. They’d just repaired a lot of damage. He couldn’t suddenly cause more again.

Cirilla caught his eye as he walked in the general direction of the refreshments. They exchanged a brief look. Cirilla smiled at him. And then loudly announced that she’d like to take part in the next dance. The distraction it caused allowed Emhyr to slip out of the room unseen. A great warm wave of thankfulness flooded through him. She understood. And she cared enough about him to allow him to step outside when it all became too much.

In hindsight, he probably should have looked where he was going when he was fleeing the ballroom. Usually, however, everyone would get out of his way when he was walking down the halls of his palace in quick, determined strides. He’d only forgotten that Cirilla had invited her witcher and definitely also not considered that Geralt didn’t like balls much either and would never show him any deference. Which was why he walked straight into the witcher, making them both stumble for a second, before Geralt took hold of his arm to prevent him from falling. Annoying as it was, his touch was far less unwelcome than the one of the senator’s daughter had been.

“And where are you running off to?” Geralt asked, in his strongly accented Nilfgaardian. Emhyr was always of half a mind to forbid the witcher from addressing him in any other language but Common Nord. But he also suspected that Geralt was laying his ineptitude on a lot thicker than it actually was. After all, he understood formal Nilfgaardian perfectly most of the time.

“An emergency,” Emhyr lied.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Really?” He asked, this time thankfully in Common Nord. It always felt more familiar when he did, like they were back at how they’d been in Cintra all those years ago. “What kind of emergency could there even be, especially when no servant approached you to give you any news?” Something very close to mischief twinkled in the witcher’s surprisingly expressive eyes.

“The emergency of me losing my temper,” Emhyr whispered back. He could trust Geralt to have Cirilla’s best interests at heart, always. Even though they didn’t always agree on the methods. If he couldn’t be honest with Geralt, there was nobody in the world he could be honest with. “I swear every time another woman past her child bearing years offers me to give me a male heir I want to stab her. One day I will.”

That made Geralt laugh. And Emhyr realized just how close they were standing, right outside a side door to the ballroom full of people. The idea of simply stepping up closer once the door opened and using the resulting rumors for Cirilla’s benefit forced itself to the forefront of his mind. The only reason he didn’t was that he’d promised Cirilla he wouldn’t use her as a political pawn and he had the distinct feeling that she would hold him to this promise in regards to Geralt, too. 

Which was why it was so much of a surprise when Geralt was the one who pulled him closer. “Promise me you won’t have me hanged for this,” the witcher whispered, and then, before Emhyr had any opportunity to respond, Geralt crashed their mouths together, a hand on the back of Emhyr’s head holding him in place.

There was a loud gasp somewhere behind Emhyr. He wanted to turn around to see who it was, but that would mean breaking a kiss he liked a surprising lot. If that was his one chance to kiss Geralt, he would not squander it because of curiosity. Besides, it would only aid him in the future if he responded. So that was exactly what he did, pressing forward against Geralt and deepening the kiss.

Geralt didn’t let him go until they both heard the door fall closed. His pupils were blown wide, when he licked his lips. “This solves your problem, right?” There was laughter in his voice. He leaned closer, sniffing at Emhyr’s neck. “And I don’t think you actually minded this too much.”

Emhyr had dropped his hands from Geralt’s shoulders to his forearms. There was no hiding from the witcher, it seemed. And he had liked it, enough to want as many repeats as he could get. It had been a very long time since he’d been kissed like that without having to suspect any ulterior motives. Well, possibly beyond the witcher trying to get into his bed for the fun of it. Which he was wasn’t too opposed to, either.

“I didn’t,” Emhyr said carefully, unsure how best to handle the situation so he could reach the intended outcome. He didn’t know how to handle Geralt. So he tried the unfamiliar route of honesty. “It was a surprise, but good. Very good.” He slid his hand up into Geralt’s hair. “You do realize, however, that within a week, the entire continent will know for certain that you are my… paramour. Title to be determined. No matter what we do or say now? It’s too good a story not to tell. Especially considering that we share a daughter.”

To Emhyr’s surprise, Geralt shrugged. “Yeah, I already figured. So, wanna sneak off to make sure there’s actually something to gossip about?”

Emhyr hummed thoughtfully. “I’m not sure whether this is the best or worst decision either of us has ever made.” He licked his lips. He wanted to kiss Geralt again very much. “I have one condition.”

“Which?”

The smirk on Geralt’s face fell when Emhyr said, “You will break this to Cirilla.”

Geralt groaned. He leaned his head on Emhyr’s shoulder, though, instead of stepping back. Emhyr counted that as a win. “That’s a high price,” Geralt murmured. “Should have known you’d ask for something impossible.”

“Too impossible?” Fear gripped Emhyr’s chest. He’d waited years for a chance to have Geralt, to have the one person he’d wanted since Pavetta had died and the one person he couldn’t have. And this was how he’d screw it up?

“Nah,” Geralt huffed. He raised his head to kiss Emhyr again, softer this time. “Hey, I’m not running away in a panic just because she will be upset. Never have. But if you don’t want me…”

“No,” Emhyr interrupted him quickly. “I do. Please.” He swallowed. “Want me to show you the fastest route back to the family wing?”

Geralt grinned. The mischief was back in his eyes. “Lead the way.”


	2. New Years Traditions (Emhyr&Ciri)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On New Year's Eve, Ciri tries to bond with her father over different holiday traditions.

It was past one in the morning when Emhyr could finally retire to his rooms. Or would have been, if Cirilla hadn't stood there waiting for him to do something he wasn't sure of when he had meant to wish her a good night. She'd finally given up on him and invited herself to his rooms.

"The fireworks were great," she said. "I've never seen so many bright colors. It is truly an art."

He hummed in agreement. The new year's fireworks had been impressive as always in the capital, as had been the lavish ball the court was expected to hold for the people and the nobility alike. Beside Midsummer, the New Year celebrations were among the biggest public holidays. Not the most important, but a day in the middle of winter to be loud and light as many bright lights as possible and just have a good time. Emhyr found it exhausting. But Cirilla had danced with him to open the dance floor and had looked happy and that alone was enough that he would keep the tradition going.

"New Year's in Nilfgaard is quite different from the North," she went on. He could tell she was working up to something so he let her be until she was ready. "Back in the North, there would be presents for the New Year."

Emhyr blinked. There was a faint memory of such tradition but it wasn't one he'd often partaken in. Maybe only three times, all of which he did his best not to think about. Mostly because they, as many other memories he had of Northern customs, centered around Pavetta.

"Anyway, I..." Cirilla fumbled with something small. "I... got you this."

She pressed a small box into his hand. "It's nothing much, really. And I don't... I mean, you didn't really... I expect nothing in return..."

Following his instincts, for once, he pulled his daughter into a tight hug. "Thank you," he said. It took her a couple of heartbeats to overcome her shock, but when she hugged him back, it was the best moment he'd had since he'd lost her for the first time.

When he stood back again, looking at her and knowing, for sure, that she did love him the same way he loved her, he had to fight tears of joy. "I really must give you something in return," he said.

"There's nothing left, father," she said, dabbing at the tears in the corners of her eyes. "Really, what is there you could still give me?"

"Wait here for a moment." He hurried into his bedroom, to the bookcase that held his personal collection of books. There, hidden between much grander tomes, was a slim volume. He'd kept it, throughout the years, protected it like a treasure. It had always been meant to be Cirilla's one day.

When he handed her the book, she frowned. Of course she couldn't know the significance. Nobody would have told her. Nobody but him could still tell her. "This was your mother's," he said. "Her favorite poetry book. I kept it, and now I want you to have it."

Cirilla looked at him with awe in her wide eyes. "But... father..."

"I have always meant to give it to you as a gift, but the opportunity never presented itself," he interrupted her. 

"I can't," Cirilla said softly. "Do you even have anything else to remember her by?"

Instead of answering her, he invited her to sit down with him by the fire. Only after he'd sent a servant for tea for the both of them, he picked up the conversation. "Did you know that in certain cultures, the first sunrise of the new year bears a special significance? Tomorrow is the quietest day of the year. Many people will be resting from the excitement of today. Nobody expects even the Emperor to rise before noon. Would you like to wait for the sunrise with me on this night?" He removed the rings from his hands until only a single one was left, a thin, scratched silver band he wore hidden beneath others. He showed it to Cirilla before he took it, too, off and handed it to her. She read the inscription carefully before giving it back. He immediately put it back on again.

"If you'd like, I would want to tell you about your mother and the few short years we had together..."


End file.
